


Arrangements

by Of Elves and Wolves (Only2morrow)



Category: Dragon Age, Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Madeleine is amazing, OC Kiss Week, Oh yes, Smut, smex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-17
Updated: 2016-01-17
Packaged: 2018-05-14 13:45:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5746030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Only2morrow/pseuds/Of%20Elves%20and%20Wolves
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>But to have Madeleine Trevelyan? Only a few ties away from his arms? He could not fathom it. His heart could not fathom it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Arrangements

**Author's Note:**

> Co-written by the fabulous http://arrowmaker247.tumblr.com/ who owns Madeleine.

For the first time in the two decades since King Alistair the First had ascended to the throne, wedding bells played throughout the Denerim palace. 

The marriage of the beloved king’s second son had drawn thousands into the streets of the great city. Trumpets blared and anthems played with every step the royal couple took, none able to deny the blessings of joy and prosperity that heralded the union.

None, save for the bride.

One year prior, Madeleine Trevelyan had been the youngest child of the seventh most illustrious house in Ostwick. She could expect a small inheritance, while her brother assumed the task of running a bannorn. A simple, quiet life for a minor noble.

Such notions changed the moment Bann Trevelyan was laid to rest on a hillside grave.

The late bann had been a scholarly sort. Absent-minded, and far more interested in the pages of his books than the documents of trade and enterprise. For the most part, he was content to leave such matters to his wife, having no mind for mercantile practices, or the trappings of nobility. 

But with the demise of the bann, the widowed Lady Trevelyan was free to seize the reins. Maxwell was pulled from the ranks of the Templars, his sword tossed aside for a crown. Whatever stalwart countenance he offered against demons and maleficarum failed when faced with his mother, and the new bann found himself as little more than a glorified figurehead in his own lands. 

Under his mother’s administration, the bannorn of Trevelyan rose to true prominence. If not the most illustrious family in Ostwick, they were certainly the wealthiest. And the dowager’s ambition would not end with sovereigns and silver.

Her first true obstacle appeared during her efforts to wed her son to the young Teryna. Queen Arianna Cousland held similar thoughts for her third-born, and was not a woman to be crossed. But Lady Trevelyan had a knack for making roses blossom from thorns, and suggested another arrangement: A marriage between her daughter, Madeleine, and the queen’s son, Riordan.

After all, Ferelden had little to fear from the Free Marches. Ostwick and Highever traded freely. A union between the Viscountess of Kirkwall and the Prince of Starkhaven would pose little threat. No, Ferelden’s true enemy lay on its western border. And any war with Orlais would require Trevelyan horses and wealth.

Had Lady Trevelyan chosen any other family, Madeleine might have approved. She had no antiquated illusions of romance and passion. Marriage was a contract of land and alliance. And bearing children with a royal name was no hardship for a young noblewoman of sense.

What she could not fathom, was how her mother’s ambitions had so transcended the limits of her sense.

Madeleine Trevelyan was well aware that the late bann was not her father. Not by blood, in any circumstances.

The remnants of Bann Trevelyan’s states had included a detailed plethora of past studies, many stretching past decades. Madeleine’s idle curiosity revealed that the bann had been in Antiva, studying wind patterns and the construction of ships, for the entirety of the month that she may have been conceived. She was no stranger to the bann’s travels, his lengthy absences. But this was a concern that crept into the corners of her mind, and refused to vanish. 

It took careful research into her great aunt, Lucille’s, guest ledgers to identify potential candidates. Even though she had long since crossed into her twilight years, the elderly dowager never missed a party. And never allowed a guest to leave without signing her books.

Several names existed on the paper, but it was the old woman herself that finally verified the name of Madeleine’s father.

Nathaniel Howe.

“Oh, do stop sneering at me, girl. If your hair and eyes are not enough to measure resemblance, that scowl with certainly credit you as a Howe.” Lucille had warned the month before the wedding, watching with bored disdain as Madeleine paced the parlor.

“I can scarcely believe she would be so bloody stupid!” Madeleine snarled, driving furious, thin white fingers through the thick brambles of her scalp. “Does it not strike you as utterly ludicrous? The entirety of the matter?”

“Not particularly.” Lucille’s face held so many creases that she seemed to smirk four times over, as her lips drew upward. “Nathaniel Howe was quite the shameless rake during his tenure as a squire. And your mother was a newlywed bride, with a husband that showed more interest in the moss growing beneath the stones of his castle than the woman that stood inside. You cannot blame her for seeking companionship--”

“I was not asking for a lecture on the merits of courtly love--”

“--That’s one description for the matter.” 

“--I was referring to her plans for a wedding.” Madeleine let out a harsh breath, a shameful tremor beginning at the base of her knuckles. “A marriage, Aunt. A marriage to the son of Warden Cousland. Perhaps I should tear my throat as a present to my new mother-in-law. It will save her the trouble of commanding her warhound to do so.”

“Melodrama does not suit you, girl.” Lucille noted reproachfully, even as gnarled fingers left the jeweled head of her cane, and found her niece’s shoulder. “And this a well-guarded secret. Few would have the patience to pursue my nephew’s tiresome ramblings about the nature of this world. And fewer yet to browse through twenty years of guest ledgers.”

“That will not stop someone with the proper tenacity, or motivation.”

“No. But you will certainly be stopped if you attempt to avoid this. Your mother may threaten you, she may disown you, she may reveal your parentage and paint it any way she likes. She is the most vicious of twits--the sort with just enough cunning to succeed, and just enough ambition to invite foolish risks. Regardless of those who may be harmed by her machinations.”

“Ultimately, I believe you know that you will be safer under Queen Cousland’s roof than Lady Trevelyan’s. At least she knows patience.”

“As shall you.” Lucille’s smile became kind, as she brushed a kiss to Madeleine’s forehead. “Be brave, dear girl. Few mothers outlast their daughters. The same holds true of mothers-in-law. One simply needs to wait.”

And so, Madeleine had arrived in Denerim a month before the wedding, quietly stationed beside her mother and her brother. Her eyes were clear, and her heart was tempered with steel. She would smile. She would curtsy. And she would not be left quaking before the woman that had turned the Howe name into a lethal virus.

As for her groom-to-be, she had heard rumors. A handsome rake, one accomplished at sewing heartache throughout the castles and taverns of Ferelden. A tiresome, foolish sort, she told herself. A relief, in fact. Such a man would pay little attention to the affairs of his wife, too engrossed in his own.

That was before she caught a glimpse of the man she was to wed.

Only practice alone made Madeleine listen, as the steward called out the full, royal names of those gathered. Only practice alone made her steal a quick glance at her betrothed, when her eyes wished to linger for eons, simply drinking in the sight of the man.

It was vastly unfair that he would be so handsome. She tried to find some flaw in him. Narrow shoulders, perhaps? A crook in his nose?

Oh, but luck had been a snide companion as of late. The prince before her was no dashing, golden-haired knight. He was sinfully attractive. Dark and immaculate. The devious quirk at the corner of his mouth threatened to jelly her knees, as if she were little more than some fool girl, goggling at the sight of royalty.

No. She was no idiot tavern wench, mystified by the sight of a handsome prince. She was not another of his conquests, and she would not act as such.

Foolishness was weakness. She would not melt before the gaze of this man. She was not so weak as that. She had no time for such insipid games.

It was a mercy that their interactions prior to marriage were based upon ceremony. Always chaperoned, never a moment for true intimacy. His easy charm was rebuffed with cool, polite responses. Always formal, never once allowing him an inkling of what truly laid in her mind’s eye.

And when the day of the wedding arrived, Madeleine stood at the altar, sheathed in white, and bejeweled with emeralds. The colors of the Trevelyan bann, stark and wintry amidst the lush gold and red of the Theirin emblem.

The revered mother’s words little more than a dull hum beyond her ears. Her words, her smile, all practiced. She expected the same, when Riordan drew near. She expected a soft, chaste thing. A quick brush of lips, to satisfy those gathered.

Instead, fire sparked to life the moment their lips touched. A raw, liquid sweetness that sank low into the pit of her belly. Made her breath hitch in her throat, and her knees buckle, beneath the pressure of such supple, honeyed contact.

It was all she could do not to abandon decorum, and draw his hands over her. Loosen the laces of her gown, and take the white silk as bedding, for the pair of them. Maker above, she wanted his hands threaded through her hair, roaming along her skin. Wanted the scratch of his whiskers in intimate, sensitive places. Shameful places, that she had only read about books. Saucy, wicked materials, full of dashing rogues with clever tongues. She had drowned in every word, in the quiet corners of the bannorn’s libraries, where her old Nan could not chastise her. Could not tell her that such wantonness was not ladylike, not suitable for a lady of the Trevelyan line.

And suddenly…she felt something wet prod her lips. Riordan was tasting her. Canvassing the soft cavern of her mouth, with the brush of his tongue.

It was…indecorous. Inappropriate. Thoughts were one matter, but actions? No, that could not be tolerated. He would not toy with her, in this moment.

Madeleine allowed him his entry. Allowed herself to soften in his arms, to gentle against that marauding mouth.

And then, she clenched her teeth. She bit thickly on the tip of his tongue, swallowing his shriek of surprise and pain, before any of the courtiers could hear.

“Do smile, husband.” She murmured, once the pair of them broke apart, presenting a grin to the cheering crowd.

Blood stained her lips, easily blending into rubied paint. “Everyone is watching.”

“My darling, smiles are what I do.” Riordan offered exactly what she requested. A smile, one he'd practiced for the court year end and year out. One that charmed, yet reassured at the same time. “Even if I am bleeding.”

The man tried to suppress the nerves growing in his stomach as his eyes wandered to his wife yet again. How had he become so lucky? He was a cad. A man never to be tied down, never to settle for simply one woman. Women were too lovely to settle upon one. They were the flavors of Thedas: All were to be tasted. 

And yet… 

When he looked upon the woman beside him, he felt no sense of flight curling within his belly. He felt no need to run away from this pomp and circumstance.

Instead, he wished to run to it.

He wished to run his fingers through ebony curls, he wished to pull his wife close to his skin studying each and every pigment. He wished to twine his legs with hers upon snowy sheets, and see just how far he could push the scorn upon her face. 

But as the day passed, dread pooled thick in her belly, nerves rattling alongside every chime of the bell. Every moment closing in upon the stroke of midnight. The moment that the feasts would end, and the celebrations would quiet, all expecting the newlyweds to retire somewhere private.

Madeleine had a bath drawn when she returned to her chambers. Scrubbed until her skin shone like the full moon. Dabbed rose water along her throat, her wrists. Brushed slick tresses into a river of ebony. And finally, she lit several candles, drawing in a sharp breath, as her maid finished the last of the laces on her night gown.

“I can answer questions for you, should you have them.” Indunna remarked quietly, her first words to her mistress that evening.

“With all respect, I do not consider any information about your time in the brothels of Kirkwall to be a comfort.”

Idunna pursed her lips into a prim line, then bowed, as she exited the room. “Take care, your highness.”

A sigh escaped Madeleine, as she reached up to rub the bridge of her nose, anticipating a battle with pounding temples, soon to come.

Perhaps she was being too harsh with her longtime friend. But there was no brushing over this reality: She was married to Riordan Theirin, the son of Arianna Cousland.

And all marriages required a consummation.

With a slow knock at the door, Riordan entered the room. He did not unclothe himself yet. She was not some tavern wench he was eager to ravish. This was to be savored, a slow thing meant to sear into their minds. He would remember every single moment of this night. 

He drank in every inch of her. This beautiful raven-haired beauty, she seemed luminescent in the light of his room. He gazed into those scorning depths once more. Her eyes were of pools of lyrium, every glance leaving his veins thrumming with magic.

It seemed as if he should say something. Perhaps give his new wife some reassurance as to his experience.

Because every woman wants to spend their wedding night hearing about how experienced their new husband is. 

No. She was no changing fancy of his whims.

Still, that did not mean he needed to throw every move to the wind. 

Madeleine had heard tales of veterans, and their activities upon returning home. Men torn from their homelands, and scarred by war, were quick to rush into the arms of their wives. Their wenches. To bury their memories between their thighs. It seemed so many brushes with death were quick to draw men away from their steel, and toward something softer. Something meant to give life.

But Riordan…he did not stare at her like a soldier. This man was no wounded warrior. No grizzled veteran, eyeing a prize. No general, considering his battleground.

This man was Calenhad, eager to wrap his silver-clad fingers around the heart of Ferelden. And she was every arling that had yet to yield to him.

This man was Drakon, the great expansionist himself. And she was every league of unsullied territory, he had yet to draw into his dominion.

This man was one of the first magisters, driving blades into the flesh of slaves for the sake of a vision. And she was the Golden City. His grand paradise.

It would have been so much simpler, had he not looked upon her with such…hunger.

Such a will to conquer her.

No.

She would not allow it.

Madeleine straightened, nearby candlelight burning in shadow of her eyes, as she locked them with Riordan’s own.

“I am not some swooning tavern wench, husband.” Her tone was clipped, crisp. Her chin high. “I am not here to praise you for some lackluster performance, and I am not here to entertain you with my own exertions. This…exercise…serves only one purpose. To consolidate our match.”

“I will not candy my words for you. I am your princess, not your prostitute. And I will not supplement your vanity like the sycophants of this court. You may be king, one day, and a ruler is ill-served by false praise.”

She drew in a sharp breath. “Now then, if that’s settled, it’s best that we attend to our duties as quickly as possible. I will not bore you with virginal theatrics.”

Her fingertips were clumsy. Trembling, as she reached for the laces at her bosom.

Decorative.

A night gown that required her husband’s assistance to undress. Blast and damnation, she would wrangle her seamstress’s neck for such romanticized impertinence.

Mustering up what remained of her courage, Madeleine turned, dropping the sea of obsidian locks over one shoulder, and exposing her back to her groom. “If you would, husband.”

At the first sign of fire within Madeleine’s eyes, a smile lit up upon Riordan's lips, “Good. I did not want to marry some tavern wench. If I did, I would have done it already, wouldn't I? That is not why I'm here either. Nor is getting praise for a lackluster performance. What good is that? Where is there room for improvement if you simply praise me the first time? Madeleine, my dear, as you pointed out so perfectly...We are married now. And as such, I am dedicated to you. So please, give me notes, scorn my performance. It will only make me try harder next time. And trust me, there will be a next time.”

“But,” He chuckled, putting down his goblet to tend to the ties, “No one says we must attend to our duties as quickly as possible. One of the perks of our arrangement. Do not be so quick to judge the act before you've taken part in it. You might find you like the art of love making.”

Love making? Dear Maker, when had he ever said such a thing? That was... awkward. He scowled for a moment, fiddling with the strings upon her gown. He was determined to keep his cool during this. He did not want to appear too eager, nor did he want to appear too cold.

It was a strange feeling, to get exactly what he wanted. Strange indeed. Surely he wanted tavern wenches, but those girls came for coin. Even the noble ladies he dallied with were simply amusements. But a woman like his new wife? Unachievable. A heavenly presence meant only for the Golden City itself.

But to have her? Only a few ties away from his arms? He could not fathom it. His heart could not fathom it. His hands almost fumbled a bit... Fumbled! What horror. No, he would not become some awkward princeling. Not now. Not when so much--and so much coin, as his family would put it--rode on this very moment.

“You presume much.” Madeline glanced over her shoulder, dark eyes scornful. “What would you have us do before we see the act completed? Swap gossip over the latest scandal in Orlais? Paint one another’s toenails? I thought you had sisters for such follies.”

“And after…again, you presume.” She pursed her lips into a scowl. “As you mentioned, I do not have a full grasp of what this will entail. I’d see it through before I decide how often I might…tolerate you.”

“Your impertinence does not suit you.” The princess informed him crisply, as the last of her laces fell away.

A sharp breath made her nostrils flare, as fire raced along her spine, Riordan drawing a knuckle over her exposed back. A tender wisp of a touch, one warm set of fingers soon tangling through her hair, while the other came to settle on her shoulder.

And yet…there was tremor. A tenuous thing, barely perceptible, flooding through his fingers.

Was he nervous? How was such a thing even possible? This prince had been drowning in women since he’d stood on the precipice of manhood. Had known damsels both slim and buxom, dusky and fair. And knew well enough that her barbs would not unman him. What could draw him toward anxiety now?

Perhaps…perhaps he was discomforted as well, by the notion of taking a stranger to bed. One that would not simply leave the next morning.

He was not the only one to shoulder the weight of this alliance.

Slowly, tentatively, she bent her head, and brushed a kiss over the hand on her shoulder.

The motion was enough to make white silk drop away, the chill of the castle air making goosebumps scatter over the princess’s flesh, as she turned to face her husband.

Tall, slim, and lithe, Madeleine was lovely. Ebon hair dropped low, thick as briar branches over the rise of her breasts. But she was quick to thread the locks over her back. She would not shield herself from him. She would ignore the mottled red that sprung up along the pale expanse of her skin, when he offered that lurid stare.

Her breasts were not so large as her corset had led him to believe. But they were high and firm, supple and delectable as set of peaches, come to bloom in the first days of spring. Her nipples were darker than he’d expected, small and rosy, tightening as wisps of cold air traveled along her skin.

She was thin, delicate, all muscle firm and decorative. Archery had offered her long, willowy arms. Horseback riding had made her thighs lean, as they tapered into neatly trimmed shadow. Ballroom dancing had given her a flat belly, with ribs that flickered beneath her skin, each time she drew in breath.

All for show, rather than function. All for sport, rather than survival. She was no buxom tavern lass. No battle-scarred warrior maiden, so treasured in the heart of Ferelden. She was as fine-boned and fragile as a hummingbird’s wing.

And when she lifted her fingers to draw over his face, he found that they were soft. Unmarked by blister, or callus.

And yet, there was some strength in her touch, as it dropped lower. Toyed with the tie of his cravat, the buttons of his doublet. A soft, subtle steel, that climbed into her voice when she deigned to speak.

“It’s not polite to stare, husband.” Wine-dark eyes lifted upward, cool and steady. But there was a spark of heat lingering beneath that fathomless black. One could easily turn to a full flame, twisting seductively, as mischief brewed in her mind’s eye. “A chivalrous apology would include some measure of recompense.”

She gave his doublet a firm tug, frowning when it did not loosen. Her familiarity with men’s clothing hardly matched Riordan’s own experience with women’s. “This comes off. All of it.”

Had Madeleine been given her way, she would have cheerfully bossed about Riordan for the entire evening.

But Riordan was not a dog, eager to lap up whatever scraps his mistress tossed.

“I'll let you know when I apologize.” Riordan grinned, taking Madeleine's hand into his own and untying his doublet. “Darling, I've never apologized for a damn thing. That's what's great about being me: I'm perfect, just the way I am.”

A smirk crossed his face at the utter scorn flaring through Madeleine's eyes. But he soon chuckled, taking her other hand into his, “You, my dear, are not the first virgin I've been with. I understand your plight. Undressing a man is not in your noble library. So allow me to help you. After all, we are husband and wife now.”

“First, you pull off the doublet... like this.” the Prince moved his hands--linked in her own--and quirked her fingers along his body until the cloth lay on the floor, “That wasn't so hard, now was it? It's hardly as complicated as a woman’s corset. That, I admire.” 

That damn smirk stayed upon his face as he moved her hands lower, just toward his beltline.

“This... this is a little more tricky.” Hefumbled for a moment, pausing and giving a cough before he regained his composure, her hands still linked in to his. “This requires agility. And cunning. Lots of cunning. But, that is also what I am here for. Roguish cunning.” 

He slipped her fingers through the loop of his belt, sliding the thing out of its hold and dropping it to the floor. “See, you're already an expert at this.”

With another roguish chuckle, he paused to look upon his bride. Maker's breath, but she was stunning. Whatever he'd done to deserve this living portrait of royalty... he'd gladly do again. Every feature of hers was better than the last. From just one look, he'd find himself lost in that gorgeous hair. With the slip of his hand, he'd tenderly massage her breast, he'd caress her, he'd fondle her…

He'd bloody cuddle with her if the void saw it fit and Riordan was not a man of cuddles.

“One more step.” he spoke, his voice nearly soft, as he guided her hands to his breeches. All manner of taunting had vanished,, and all that remained was a gentility unknown to any familiar with Prince Riordan Theirin. He moved her fingers, unbuttoning his breeches and letting the fabric fall to the ground in a graceless pile, freeing his cock from it’s prison.

He then stood, as naked as the day he was born. Nothing but a smirk dotted his face as he dropped her hands from his grasp, “I find undergarments only get in the way.”

He shouldn’t have been this handsome. Again, she hunted for flaws. Nagging imperfections, something she might find solace in. Broken veins beneath his skin? A collection of unsightly moles? A belly swollen from years of ale and excess?

Nothing. It was impossibly unfair, that a man could manage to be both dashing and rugged at the same time, sculpted features coupled with a wealth of thick, neatly trimmed hair. Such patterns extended past his face, and dropped low into heavily defined pectorals, and an abdomen like stacked stone, both dusted with fine, dark fuzz.

She would deviate his septum in the middle of the night. He’d never see it coming.

But all thoughts of such schemes vanished, the moment her glance fell upon carved hips and lean thighs, centering on what lay between. Jutting proudly from a nest of coarse, curled hair, was his manhood. Stout, and proud, and attentive, and…so very, very thick. The trunk of it alone was enough to remind her of the quarterstaff the guard captain had used to thrash recruits for falling from their horses. Madeleine did not shy against hardship, but how in the Maker’s name was she supposed to fit such a thing inside her? She would be left bruised and shredded, if such a feat could be accomplished.

Her eyes met his, dark as the bottom of a rum bottle. Uncertainty glimmered in those depths. What came next? They could hardly stand about, staring at one another all evening. Though she supposed that wouldn’t have been the worst way to spend her time…

No. She had a task to accomplish. None would question that she had been wedded and bedded, by the end of this night.

But where to start? Propriety seemed to dictate that she kiss him. A fine choice. Familiar. Comforting. Like a hot meal, served time and again. But now, he was undressed. And he had bared all manner of exotic delicacies.

But as her eyes dipped once more, she nearly allowed herself a gasp. Had he grown…larger? Was such a thing even possible? Weren’t men supposed to shrink in the cold? This was outrageous. She was going to write a sternly worded letter to someone. She didn’t know who yet, but someone would face her wrath for this inconvenience. Perhaps his mother. Yes, this was doubtlessly a new a way to torment the youngest of the Howe line. Some terrible scheme, masterminded so many years before—

Sweet Maker…he had more to show?

Boldness replaced panic, and she wrenched Riordan’s shoulders downward, crushing his mouth against hers in a harsh kiss. Her fingers slid low, fisting into the pelt atop his chest. But they would not cease their trembling.

He was impossibly warm, tempting her to draw closer. To soak in his heat, and escape the chill of castle. To tender her touch, unfurrow her brow, and open her eyes.

She would not be so foolish. Opening her eyes meant the sight of what was to come. Meant that he would see the true fear, pushy and unwelcome, making a home in her skin. Meant that he would see her uncertainty, her indecision. She would not allow that.

She was not afraid of Riordan. She would not allow herself to cower before the scion of the Cousland line. But in this moment, she feared what he could accomplish. He was larger than her. Stronger. Easily capable of overpowering her, and inflicting an intimate wound. She was naked, vulnerable, and alone. There would be no explaining such matters. No return to Ostwick. Not even the gallows. Only Fort Drakon, where traitors rotted. A fate just as insulting, just as damaging, as anything Riordan might try.

So, she would be harsh. She would be all thorns and brambles, and cut sharply as a fine blade. If Riordan wished to tarnish her, then he would not leave unbruised.

It was all she could do not to rip the hairs from his chest, the moment his fingers sealed over her own, trapping them beneath his palms. And yet…he was gentle, rough fingers kneading soothing circles over her knuckles, until she let go.

“Do not toy with me, husband.” She snapped, reaching for him once more. Only to find a set of steely, solid fingers closing over her wrist. “Let me go.”

And then, he lifted her hand, drawing his mouth over the knuckles. A soft, gentle thing. Nothing like the unvarnished force she’d displayed in her own kiss, only moments before.

Slowly, he turned her hand, and brought his lips low. Caressing her flesh, until her fist loosened. Like a flower blooming in the rain.

Breath caught in her throat, as lips met her palm. Grazed the fragile pulse inside her wrist. She hadn’t expected such a thing to be so sensitive. Hadn’t expected sparks of electricity to tumble along her arm, her lower abdomen offering a tug of answering heat. Like dim embers, among ashes.

“What are you doing?” Her voice was softer now, steel stolen by silk, as sensation gathered in every hot, climbing kiss. Why did he act in such a fashion? Her arms were hardly pertinent to this act.

But Maker’s breath, if it didn’t feel good.

“Kissing my wife.” Riordan smiled, layering kisses along her arm, before he swept into his own strong ones, and headed towards the bed. “What else would I be doing?”

His body was not as his older brother’s, or his father’s, forged in swords and steel made for long nights in battle. No, this was the body of a Prince. This was a man who walked the halls of the castle day in and day out tending to matters of state. This was the man who crept in the shadows, learning the craft of daggers from his mother. Though he rarely thought to use them. He was strong, most certainly, but the sculpting of his body was put aside for matters of the mind.

This was the man who would one day be king, if he got his way. He was used to pleasing women. He'd spent most of his adult life searching the folds between a woman's thighs. But this woman... she was not like those others. He did not wish to-

He tripped. It was only for a split second, and though he completely recovered, it still happened. A slip. A damn slip. What was happening to him? He was deft, suave, and... damn it.

It was still alright. He could recover.

He swung her around in his arms, bouncing back from the trip with something more like a dance. It was romantic. And though he had just tripped, he was as charming as ever.

Gently, he laid her down upon the mattress. Nothing but care laced with in his sapphire eyes. He did not press a kiss to her lips, but to her forehead, as he climbed into what would soon become his marriage bed.

It still astounded him. He? Prince Riordan Theirin, a married man. Not only that, but married to the loveliest creature he'd had the Maker's grace to lay eyes upon. That scorn, those dark eyes, the pale skin he wished to kiss...he could not get enough of it.

Wished? Oh but he could. He could kiss her skin. After this evening, they would be truly husband and wife. There was no taking back a consummated marriage, not without the wrath of the Divine behind him.

Upon climbing into bed, he allowed himself not to kiss her lips, but to trail his mouth lower to those lovely breasts. Oh, he would get his fill of them. He began with a soft press of lips to her skin and... fumbled again. Just a bit. 

He growled, angry at himself for the lack of concentration on the matter. He was a skilled beast, a man who ravished in the sack... what in the Maker's name was wrong with him?

No matter, he would move on. What would be next? Ah yes, the nipples. He quite liked that part. In fact, he could make them stand on a coin. He'd swirl over the things, fondle them, use that silver tongue of his for something more than the politics of the crown. He would have her mewling, he would see that scorn in her eyes dissipate with pleasure. Before the night was done.

Or he would die trying.

Madeleine fisted her hands in the sheets, a hiss of sharp pleasure escaping her the moment his tongue swept over a nipple. Heat crested her cheeks, gathered thick in the pit of her belly, as he molded his mouth over the bud, coaxing it to stand tall and rosy.

Somewhere in the brush of lips and stubble, her focus sharpened. She grew intensely interested in his head, as it bent toward her breast. Intensely interested in curling her fingers through thick hair, dark as though it had been soaked in molasses. Her fingers searched downward, streaming through close-cropped whiskers. Coasted over his neck.

She was entranced by the steady thrum of his pulse. The mechanical workings of tendon and muscle beneath sun-varnished skin, as he worked at her breast. Her fingertips clutched at ridges of muscle every time he closed over someplace sweet.

Curiously, her fingers crept over the hollow of his throat. Sifted downward through that pelt, thick as a wolf’s coat, until she could brush her thumb along one of his own nipples.

She snatched her hand away, the moment a blue-grey glance came her way. She seemed impossibly small, at that moment. Like a cornered fawn, frozen before a hunter. There was no scorn. Only a tense, wary expression.

He may not have been a giant among men, but compared to her, Riordan was mighty as any golem. Capable of taking her between stone-strong fingers, and crushing her as easily as a wounded bird. There was just so much of him. Why couldn’t he have been smaller? Not so ruthlessly attractive. Boorish, perhaps? Spindly?

Instead, he was all lean muscles. Smooth and sleek as a leopard. And yet…he had not used his power to dominate her. Had not made this into a show of force. At least, not yet.

It might have been easier, had he been a brute. At least under those circumstances, she would know where she stood.

What exactly was he trying to accomplish with such motions? His lips at her wrist, his mouth at her breast…it all seemed terribly superfluous.

The answering heat drawn between her thighs disagreed immensely.

But even still, emotion warred beneath her skin, as her hand laid flat over his chest. Her index finger tracing the hollow of his throat.

He was so foreign to her. So inescapably masculine. All hard angles and whiskers. But he did not seem to mind her touching him, even when pads turned to nails, and she scored the indentions of his ribs with manicured perfection.

His gaze fell toward her fingers. Slowly crept over the length of her arm, along the downy slope of her shoulders, and settled right on her bosom.

The man seemed to have an infernal fascination with the things.

But part of her couldn’t help but envy him. Obscure as they were, he at least seemed to have a firm grasp on his desires. She, in contrast, seemed to be stumbling in the dark. Not certain where to touch, or what to say. Certainly, he didn’t mind that her fingers were coasting over his chest...but did he desire motions? Were there other places he wished for her attend to? Should she? Or would she be giving away too much, too soon? Or too little? What was expected of her, beyond the obvious? He did not seem contented by the obvious.

What exactly was rolling around this damnable man’s head? Would that she had the power to slice a finger open, and read through the scrolls of his mind.

Especially when simply asking seemed…crass. Uncomfortable. Unbearably intimate, when so much was already exposed. Vulnerable.

But since when had boldness ever failed her?

“Riordan…” The question died on her lips before she could ask. It was a phantom string of words, a roiling heat not yet captured by form and substance, but throbbing and insistent. Ill content to linger in the pit of abdomen.

If she only knew what to ask.

“Yes, Dearest?” Riordan murmured right into the crook of her shoulder pressing heated kiss after heated kiss upon her. That charmingly dashing smirk crossed his face as he pressed yet another kiss to her shoulder.

He knew what that shaky voice was, she was unsure. As was he. Each woman was different after all, complete with their own desires and wants. They would simply need to explore hers.

And that was easily accomplished.

With tender hands, he cupped her breast. Strong fingers moved lower upon her skin. He did not maraud, he was not rough, but instead he held understanding for a woman about to embark on her first journey into pleasure.

“Trust me.” He cooed, his lips still upon her shoulder, as a hand moved lower on to her abdomen. He circled over the skin, toying with the carved planes of her stomach. It was... maddening to show such restraint. And at the same time, he was grateful for it. The raw scent of her filled his mind with clouds, muddling his tender heart with lustful thoughts of sinking his mouth between her thighs.

But this was her first. And something of that nature, with a woman this...unique...might take some getting used to. He understood that. He could have patience in this matter... but in the meantime, he could certainly show her what bliss lay between those slender thighs.

As if letting his fingers touch upon snow for the first time, Riordan carefully parted her. He kissed her softly once more, with actual affection behind his kiss.

Wait... what?

Affection. Him?

Maker's Breath. This woman had him under a spell.

That was the only explanation for it. She was a blood mage, and he the man she was sent to seduce through magic. It was the only explanation that made sense. He was not a man of true affection. He was the unattainable and craved the unattainable. He was a mess. What was she doing to him? Who was this man?

He could do this. He could touch her as he touched other women. He could enter her sanctuary. He began by licking his finger--a familiar gesture--as he parted her once again. Explored the depths of that delicate flesh. He circled her, coaxing that beautiful button to life.

He almost envied her. To feel that flesh stroked to life for the first time. To revel in that skin tingling, blood pumping bliss without experienced it so many times before. It was delightful, even more delightful to think that he would bring her there.

Nothing had prepared Madeleine for the sudden blinding, scorching heat, as Riordan’s fingers found her flesh. All thoughts of what to do with her hands, where she might touch him, what his motivations were, became nothing more than ash. Devoured by the flame in the pit of her belly.

She was going to be undone by this man. She couldn’t have cared less.

Head tossed back against the pillows, hair fanned out against the sheets, pale skin glowing in the candlelight, Madeleine was lush and delicious in her arousal. Sweat blended into rosewater, scenting the air with a heavy, heady perfume. An erotic bouquet for the first man to touch her.

Her thighs widened. Her hips tilted. Anything to draw him nearer. To nurture the sweet ache in her belly. Pressure began to build beneath her skin, chasing heat and pleasure, and only growing with every stroke.

It occurred to her, in that delightful swirl of fingertips and palms, that she was sodden. A strange, liquid serum had gathered in her most private of spaces--leaving her soaked, from skin to curls, with every touch.

But Riordan did not seem to mind. If anything, he seemed pleased by the discovery, eager to find more of it.

But when his finger slipped into the slick tunnel of her womanhood, intimate muscle burned. Became something raw, something chapped. Stinging pain and pressure suddenly turned white-hot, knifing through her, as his fingers tore through a thin sheet of flesh.

Outrage brimmed thick in the pitch of her eyes, as they snapped wide. Her hand rose before she could think to stop herself, and struck hard against Riordan’s cheek.

Hard as she had struck, physical strength was not one of her virtues. Riordan hardly even flinched at the mark on his skin, more concerned with his fingers, slick with blood as they exited the warmth of her body.

Flushed, naked, and seething, Madeleine appeared nevertheless ready to murder this man.

She had expected to bleed, but not like this. Not in the midst of pleasure, not when she had been ready to melt into the palm of his hand. 

She hated that tears had pricked the corners of her eyes. Hated that she had reneged on her word, and engaged in such virginal histrionics. There was no place for sentiment, for weakness.

But she was strong in her anger. Powerful. She could endure this, and would.

“Get this over with.” The woman demanded, barbed wire seeming to linger her throat as she spoke.

Her fingers fell right to his shaft, gripping him tightly. Giving a firm tug, and trying to guide him toward her thighs.

But he did not budge, and she offered him a harsh glare, for his petulance. She would see this over and done with. And he would do so, or she could make a pin cushion of the organ she held in her grip.

She would not allow her curiosity to get the better of her. She would not explore the heavy ridge, the steel touched with satin. She was not interested in what might make him twitch and sigh, as she just had. What spaces on his body would have his head tossed back, his square hands fisted in the sheets.

She would see this finished.

“You must think me a terrible man if you believe I'm going to simply jump in before you're alright.” the Prince offered, wiping his bloody hand on the sheet. He laid back down beside his wife, eager to take her into his arms--even if she was swatting him way.

He rubbed his jaw for a moment, trying to ignore the aching heat between his own thighs. But he was not some mad man with nothing but lust in his eyes. He would not cause her to hurt more than she already had.

“We take this slow.” Riordan assured her, pressing another kiss to the crook of her shoulder, “If you're not having a good time with this, then what's the bloody point?”

He chuckled, letting his fingers wander again along her skin. He knew she would still be feeling that initial ache within her. But perhaps with a little more pleasure, and some time, that sting could be replaced.

His fingers took their time, tracing over each part of her skin. First, her breasts. Those lovely breasts meant for his hands alone. His lips wandered lower, willing her body to forget the ache between her thighs. And perhaps, for a second, the ache between his own.

“I won't say this won't hurt.” Riordan cooed, as his fingers came back to her hips, “I'm not a woman myself, and would make no assumptions about that pain... but I can promise you that I will do everything in my power to lessen that pain and replace it with a certain... delight.”

At least, that's what he’d been told. Was his reputation all a lie though? By some Maker's blessing Madeleine was now his wife. She did not need to lie to him.

No. That couldn't have been it.

He parted her yet again, trying once more to coax that passion out of her. But it was much more difficult this time. She'd been hurt, scorned by her own body for wanting such passion. It would take much to overcome such a betrayal. But he would be patient. He would listen to her sighs--her soft, subtle twitches...and respond in kind. He would caress her, fondle her, and when the moment came, he would enter that magical sanctuary and have sex... with his wife.

“The point is to see this finished.” She informed him shortly, breath catching her throat the moment he cupped her sex. “It…”

Maker’s breath, how could anyone think to speak when they were being touched in such a manner?

No. She would not be overpowered by this. By him. Nothing would control her in such a fashion.

“It is a waste, otherwise.” Madeleine finally decreed, but the gathering heat between her thighs spoke of her body’s disagreement.

It had been a dying ember initially, but Riordan’s clever fingers were quick to pull it from the ashes. Slowly and patiently stoking it into a rousing flame.

And suddenly, that heat became scorching. Blistering, in its entirety. It was as though she had reached inside a furnace, and yet, did not possess the sense to remove her hand. No, not sense. Will.

Because as frightening, as overwhelming as this heat was…it was sensational in its arrival. Dizzying and audacious, forcing her toes to curl, and her muscles to grow tight with tension. Her nerve endings hummed in some mysterious anticipation. Her hips moved as though they had a mind of their own, drawing further into Riordan’s hand, searching for more friction. For the grind of his heel against her sex.

She began to twist in his arms. To undulate in his grasp, the proof of her arousal spilling through his fingers in a slick tapestry of heat. It seemed too much to bear. Too exquisitely sensitive to handle, and yet…she drew closer. She clamped her fingers into his muscled shoulders. Bit back moans from behind clenched teeth, as something rose inside her. Climbed the links of her spine, and pooled thick in her belly. The heat was unbearable, and suddenly…it all came to a crescendo.

The pit dropped out from her stomach, and her world shattered in the fraction of a heartbeat. Some distant, minimal sense made Madeleine smother her mouth with her palm. Catching her sharp wail, before the whole of the castle could hear it.

Riordan looked utterly crestfallen, in the space of that moment. Was he upset with her? Had she done something wrong? It certainly hadn’t felt wrong, and if that was the case, why would he work her up to this point? It was mind-boggling inconsistent. Why would he…

Wait. Had he wanted to hear her shriek? Was he disappointed that she had quieted herself?

A hot blush bloomed over pale cheeks, at the possibility. Perhaps he wanted her reckless, control abandoned, in favor of wild pleasure.

That hardly seemed dignified.

But all thoughts of decorum were soon cast aside, as his fingertips circled the rim of her opening. She felt…impossibly empty. All stinging tossed aside, in favor of this sudden, grasping greed. This ache to be not only sated, but filled. Clutching upon such vacancy…It was a misery, when her raw nerves clamored for even more.

Luckily, Riordan had just the cure.

Madeleine drew in a sharp breath, as he settled her back against the pillows. Pushed her knees apart, once more.

Something blunt touched the rim of her womanhood, and she swallowed hard, bracing herself for what was coming next.

Catching her tension, Riordan leaned forward to kiss her, to soothe away some of that worry. To lull her into something relaxed, before he moved forward.

Shocking awareness struck her, the moment he was inside. Numbing, disorienting, like being plunged into cold water. But there was no pain. Only pressure. And this strange, tingling awareness, as flesh never made to yield struggled to accommodate him.

Madeleine was distantly aware that he was moving. Setting a torturously slow pace, as she shifted beneath him, gathering her limbs into a comfortable arrangement.

As strange as this feeling seemed to be for her, it was clear by Riordan’s expression that this sensation was nothing short of blissful for him. It was only sensible to help him along, she reasoned, as her fingers found his jawline.

She tilted his head just the slightest, teeth soon discovering his earlobe, and nibbling gently. An answering squeeze greeted her hip, and she smiled against his skin. She had found something he liked.

Curious once again, Madeleine indulged herself, pressing her lips to the juncture of his jaw and ear. Trailing downward, following the hum of a pulse.

During her many trips to Nevarra, one of her Mortalitasi cousins had spent all manner of sums procuring cadavers, and cutting away the skin. Eagerly displaying the map of veins, arteries, nerves, muscle, and bone beneath the skin. She had been fascinated by the woven tapestries of the human body. Delighted to learn the mysteries in muscles and tendons. In the pulse and thrum of a heartbeat.

She found those lines once again. But she wore no gloves, benefited from no teacher. Instead, she mapped the flex and pull of tendons with her lips. Followed elegant trails of venous blue. Touched the tip of her tongue to that blood-rich artery in his throat, surprised by the taste of salt along his skin.

This man was flesh and blood, vigorously alive. He seemed to draw vitality from the cove between her thighs, eager to dunk himself in the wet depths, and whisper a series of incomprehensible growls into her ear. Something filthy, no doubt. Bur it that still made her toes curl. Made heat pour rich and slick, like warm syrup, between her thighs. 

A grin struck his face when her inner muscles gave an answering squeeze.

But all thoughts suddenly dashed away, quick as a lightning strike. Riordan, in his passions, had grazed a spot that made her world shrink to the size of that space between her legs. Made white-hot pleasure knife through her--all with a single, glancing touch.

She had gasped when he found it. No, not gasp. Not some breathless, shuddering gust of air. There was real sound in her surprise. A high, sharp pitch, akin to the wail she’d stifled earlier.

And when he moved again, when he found that spot once more, she gave an outright moan. Heavy black lashes dimmed her eyes, as a slow smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. Her teeth sinking into her bottom lip, at the sudden influx of delicious pleasure.

But she soon caught herself, and caught her lips, sealing those damning moans in the back of her throat. Smothered them behind a tightly clenched hand, as mortification crested red in her cheeks, and blew her gaze wide.

If there was ever a perfect moment, it was this one. Here. Wrapped up in Madeleine's arms. She was fire, she was blood pumping passion. It was a crime that this woman hadn't been touched before. The world was in envy of him, spending very moment wrapped up so delicately with in her.

His own body crashed with in hers, consummating their new marriage in the age old fashion of intertwining limbs. There was no going back now. No denying their union. He was hers as much as she was his, no matter how they felt later.

His body fell to the soaked sheets beside her, his chest still rising and falling with the passion of the moment.

He did not take her into his arms--he knew she would not want such a thing. Instead, he pressed another kiss to the crook of her shoulder, and stood for a moment to gather her a glass of wine, pouring one for himself as well.

“To us.” He tapped her glass upon his, taking care not to let a single drop of wine spill from his cup, “And our marriage. Long may we reign.”

Taking a long sip of the wine, Riordan smiled at his wife as he climbed back into bed, “Now, was that so terrible? I think it might not have been so terrible. You certainly seemed to enjoy it, at least I thought that's what all those moans were about. Frankly I'm not completely sure, but I'd like to think I knew.”

“Those…noises...were entirely mortifying. And it is in entirely terrible taste for you to bring them into the conversation, husband.” She informed him shortly. 

But her glower soon softened, as she considered his kindness in the act. The fiery ache between her thighs. The low, supple tug in her abdomen. The way she arched and clenched, helpless against the tide of passion.

“But it was…not what I expected.” Madeleine admitted slowly, passing a hand through sweat-soaked hair, as she took inventory.

Her nerves were raw. Buzzing. All the world seeming dimmer and sharper at once, in the aftermath of this event. The insides of her thighs were sore and burning. She had been scraped by whiskers in indecent places. The most impertinent of these marks rested upon her breasts, chapped and red and mottled. She would have to invest in a decent concealer for tomorrow’s royal breakfast, lest she wished to offer any tawdry gossips a measure of truth to their speculations.

But she was…not discontented.

Slowly, she took a sip of wine. The world seemed turn pleasantly quiet. She was immensely tired, energy drained as quickly as water on dry sand.

But the contents of that glass seemed to embolden her. Made her place her cup on the bedstand, and roll onto her side, dark eyes curious and searching.

Slowly, she climbed over him. Settling her weight atop his hips, and fanning her fingers along his chest.

She did not linger long, choosing instead to draw a manicured nail along the length of his sternum, and brush a thumb along the square muscles of his abdomen.

“Is it always going to be like this?” She found herself asking, a scowl tugging at her lips. “And how often do you expect this? I won’t open my legs at your beck and call, husband. Future king or no. As I said before, you have tavern wenches for such matters.”

Riordan shrugged, taking his wine glass and downing it. “Whenever you please. I'm not some beast, Madeleine. I can control myself. Nor would I expect you to be a sniveling sycophant, opening your legs if I alone please. This is a partnership, not a dictatorship. I don't want you to simply roll over. I could get that anywhere. I've gotten it everywhere. Trust me. What I want, is simply what I have. An alliance with Ostwick, greater power, and a beautiful woman. What more is there to ask?”

He simply shrugged again reaching over and pouring more wine into his glass, “Stay with me when you'd like, or leave this as a consummation of marriage and be done with it. I'm a grown man, Madeleine, I can handle abstaining. I might not always like it, but I can handle it.”

A small pain tugged at his heart at the thought of it. In truth… there was something in this woman that he did not wish to leave. He did not wish to seek other women outside of this bed, not when he touched a woman such as Madeleine.

“As for our marriage...Though I do enjoy the tavern women, I made a commitment to you and I take my commitments seriously.” The man offered, “I will not stray from you. I want this to work, at least as much as it can. Though I will not stop you from seeking the comfort of other men. Do so if you wish, just be discreet. I want this to be built off of mutual respect for one another and that starts here in the bedroom.”

The man smirked for a moment taking another sip from his wine glass, “Now that the serious part is done, why don’t we move on to other topics? Like those noises again. It might be in terrible taste to bring them up, but no one ever said I had exceptional taste. If you're looking for that, you've come to the wrong man. Well...with the exception of my feelings toward yourself. You are of the highest quality. A diamond among the rough.”

Wariness struck Madeleine the moment Riordan spoke of vows and abstinence. The man was a born liar. And marital purity would not suit him. No, this man had a taste for what existed between these sheets. And he would not part with it easily.

“Whether or not you practice fidelity is not my concern.” She offered, surprising herself with her honesty. “I never expected that I would marry a faithful husband. And though you speak well now, I wish to let you know…Should the novelty wear off, I take no issue with you seeking comfort with other women. I only wish that you practice discretion. I offer the same in return.”

Though the thought of another man touching her so intimately, it made her grimace. There was so much toll, so much labor involved. She scarcely understood how easily some could simply waltz from tavern to tavern, rutting like cattle.

Perhaps it was all a matter of perspective. She was focused on the goal, but Riordan seemed to enjoy the journey itself. He favored all manners of erotic touch and murmurs, long before settling to the true business of the matter.

Still, she could not help pursing her lips, and folding her arms over her chest--indirectly offering him a delectable view of her bosom--as he brought up taste.

But suddenly, an amused smile broke out. “Perhaps it’s to your advantage then, that you did not pick me.”

His answering grin sent a flurry of sensation through her heart. And despite herself, she wondered if perhaps she might have chosen him, had she been left to select her own candidates.

A foolish thought, but one that she would indulge a single night, as she curled up beside him. Eyes soon closing, and scorn wiped from the canvas of her face.


End file.
